This Ain't Goodbye
by sheslikethewind
Summary: He thought they were meant to be, and it's hard to go through life knowing she feels otherwise. / No longer a one-shot.
1. This Ain't Goodbye

_I.  
>You and I were friends from outer space<br>Afraid to let go  
>The only two who understood this place<br>And as far as we know  
>We were way before our time<br>As bold as we were blind  
>Just another perfect mistake<br>Another bridge to take  
>On the way of letting go<em>

He's not sure when things start to feel different, but he knows it's happening. He knows she's pulling away from him, he knows she picks more fights over the silliest things, he knows she can feel the strain it's putting on their relationship.

So he does the only rational thing he can think to do- he ignores it.

He'll pretend everything's okay, because a problem can't exist if you've never even acknowledged it, right? Yeah. Good. Pretending, it is. Pretending, he can do. He's good at pretending.

He thinks she starts trying to pretend, too.

So they continue through their senior year, taking even more initiative to lead the glee club to victory.

They continue on, breaking down the barriers of McKinley's social caste system.

They continue on, Rachel constantly trying to slip discreetly from the grasp of his handhold and Finn only strengthening his grip, terrified of what it might symbolize if he lets her out of it.

They continue on, with their plastered-on smiles and their fake laughs and their quick pecks on the cheek.

He tells himself it's working. He tells himself that if they pretend long enough, this, whatever _this_ is, will all blow over, and everything will be back to normal.

He wants so badly for everything to be back to normal. He wants his Rachel back. He wants to walk down the halls with his arm wrapped around her shoulders, without her flinching at the contact or trying to slowly shrug away. He wants her to look at him the way she used to while they sang duets together; she may be fooling everyone else with her performances now, but it's painfully obvious to him that it is only that- a performance. He wants her to speak excitedly about their future together, a topic that hasn't been broached for months. He wants her lips to know his passion again, without the sting of rejection that comes now with the inevitable turn of her head.

He needs validation. He needs to know. He needs to know everything will be okay, because he can't lose her. He can't.

But he's too scared to ask. He can't handle the pain that could accompany her answer. He can't handle the reality that could rip him apart.

So he just keeps pretending, and she does, too.

* * *

><p><em>II.<br>We were stars up in the sunlit sky  
>No one else could see<br>Neither of us thought to ever ask why  
>It wasn't meant to be<br>Maybe we were way too high  
>To ever understand<br>Maybe we were victims of all the foolish plans  
>We began to devise<em>

Pretending is more difficult than he thought it would be.

It's like the time junior year that they pretended not to love each other, only harder.

It's harder because, while he's only pretending that he's okay, he thinks she might be pretending to love him.

He would never have to pretend to love her.

He doesn't think anything could hurt more than this. For the one person you love more than anything to _humor_ your love.

He doesn't understand. He doesn't know what he's doing wrong. He doesn't know what's wrong with _him_.

Why is he not good enough anymore?

He's trying to give her everything.

When she yells at him, he apologizes. When she points fingers, he readily accepts the blame. When she cries and wants to be held, he rubs her back and strokes her hair and murmurs comforting words. When she tells him to leave her alone, he doesn't call or text her for days. When she never says "I love you" back, he looks away with his wounded eyes and tries not to let his hurt show.

He plays along with all her games, just hoping she will somehow realize. Somehow realize how much he's willing to do for her, how much he loves her.

He just wants her to realize. He just wants her to love him again.

So when he takes her home on the last day of school and she shakes her head at his open arms begging for a hug goodbye, he begins to cry.

His arms fall to his sides, he hangs his head, and just cries.

She stands there in shock, unmoving, as his entire body wracks with sobs.

With tears now gathering in her eyes, she walks toward him, placing a hand on his cheek.

He doesn't look up, he even resists the desperate urge to lean in to her touch. He only wraps his arms around himself, too afraid an attempt to seek comfort in _her_ arms may be rejected.

His heart can't handle that right now.

He stands there shaking with tears, comforting himself, and she is still as a statue with her hand still on his cheek.

He finally regains enough control, after a big, shuddering breath, to look up at her with sad, watery eyes, and speaks softly with quivering lips.

"Why don't you love me anymore?"

Her eyes widen and the blood drains from her face, and he has to look away- he won't be able to handle the conflict that he knows will appear there. Not because he's afraid of seeing emotion, no, emotion is good. But because he knows all too well it will be short-lived, only to be replaced instantly by the same stoic mask he's seen for months now.

The same stoic mask that serves as a constant reminder that he's just not enough.

He tries not to break down again as she fumbles around, searching for placating words that he knows will be lies.

She gives up, at a loss for anything that might sound half-way decent, and he just stands still, trying to control his breathing, as she runs a hand through his hair before walking to her porch and opening the front door.

He doesn't allow himself to collapse until he hears it shut.

Falling to his knees, he lets himself go.

He doesn't know how much time passes, but it's dark, and the street lamps have turned on, and he's still curled up on her driveway, crying.

Crying for his broken heart, crying for their broken future, crying for their broken love that was supposed to last a lifetime.

_They were supposed to make it. They were supposed to have it all._

He doesn't even hear the front door open as he draws his knees closer to his face, he doesn't even feel the soft touch on his shoulder as he tries to burrow further into the ground, silently asking the earth to just swallow him. He's numb.

He doesn't recall standing up, or being led into her house, up her stairs, tucked into her bed- all he can focus on is his foolishness. How foolish he was for thinking this was more than she thought it was, for daring to dream of a life with her, for allowing himself to fall so hard for someone whose love he was not worthy of.

Who is he? What right did he have to expect those things? What had he done to deserve those things?

He is no one. He's nothing, and he's useless, and he's foolish.

So damn foolish.

* * *

><p>III.<br>_This ain't goodbye  
>This is just where love goes<br>When words aren't warm enough to keep away the cold  
>This ain't goodbye<br>It's not where our story ends  
>But I know you can't be mine, not the way you've always been<br>As long as we've got time  
>Then this ain't goodbye<br>Oh no, this ain't goodbye_

He wakes up in her bed, sweating and shivering simultaneously.

He looks over to see her curled up on her window seat, her body shaking as she weeps quietly.

He swallows his pain and walks to her, dropping down beside her and taking her into his arms.

She doesn't protest.

He holds her, and he cries a fresh round of tears.

Tears for them. For who they were, for who they've become, for who they could've been.

What seems like hours later, they manage a conversation.

She admits she was scared of their long distance posing a problem, and distancing herself, decreasing her dependency, seemed like the best option so the pain of an inevitable breakup wouldn't break _her_.

He wants this to give him hope, he wants to think that talking everything out will fix everything, but he doesn't allow himself the optimism.

He doesn't want to tell her how much pain she's caused him over the months. He loves her too much to do that to her, to throw her into a guilt trap.

Instead, he just pushes her bangs off her face and tearfully tells her how much he misses her.

When she responds with more tears, he realizes he was correct in not getting his hopes up.

He wants to fight for her, he tries to fight for her, but she tells him it's over.

She tells him that she cares about him too much to let this charade carry over to college, that she cares about him too much to let them both get more attached over the summer, only to be ripped apart in two short weeks when she leaves, that she cares about him too much for them to start hating each other.

He doesn't tell her that he already hates himself.

She stands up to get a tissue, and he knows that's his cue to leave.

He tries to feel, he tries to grasp the situation in front of him, but he just.. can't.

No.

No, no, no.

Please.

It can't be over.

He shuts his eyes tightly, as if this is all a terrible dream that will disappear the moment they open.

But he opens his eyes and he's still here. And she's still wiping her nose. And he's still supposed to leave.

He stands up in a daze and walks to her door, turning around one final time, silently begging her to tell him this is all some cruel joke.

But it's not, and she doesn't, and he looks away from the bed where she's curled herself up again and he walks downstairs.

He stops at the bottom, tears blurring his vision as he looks around this house one final time.

The house that had become his second home.

As he walks slowly to his truck, he thinks it might actually feel more like home than the one he's headed to right now.

* * *

><p>IV.<br>_But this ain't goodbye  
>This is just the way love goes<br>When words aren't warm enough to keep away the cold.  
>This ain't goodbye<br>It's not where our story ends  
>But I know you can't be mine<br>Just like the way you've always been  
>As long as we've got time,<br>This ain't goodbye,  
>Oh no, this ain't good bye, oh oh, oh no this ain't goodbye<br>This ain't goodbye  
>You and I were friends from outer space<br>Afraid to let go  
>The only two who understood this place<br>And as far as we know_

A week later, he's at graduation.

As he greets his friends, he has only one person on his mind.

Through all the speeches, he thinks only of her long, shiny hair, of her bright eyes, of her effervescent smile.

When the valedictorian tells them that today marks the beginning of the rest of their lives, his mind takes him to New York, and Broadway, and their nice apartment, and their dog, and their children.

When the principal wraps up by saying that most of them will never see each other again, to cherish the good times they shared together, he wants to punch someone in the face.

When she walks across the stage, though, his heart stops.

She accepts her diploma and seeks him out in the crowd.

From up there, she softly sends his way what is the first genuine smile he's seen in months.

He attempts to return it before his emotions contort his face, and he watches her as she makes her way back to her seat.

His heart throbs with pain, but his mind zones in on one thought.

It's not over.

He knows it now. It will never be over for them.

This just wasn't their time.

They just can't give each other what they need right now.

Sure, it hurts like hell thinking what could've been, and wondering why they can't just give it a shot, but he forces himself to accept the reality.

In the future, though, maybe when they're more mature, and more settled, and can support themselves.

He lets these quasi-comforting thoughts occupy his mind for the duration.

As the ceremony draws to an end, she sees him watching her and makes her way over to him.

After a couple of shy, formal congratulations, she takes his hands and looks him in the eye with tears in hers.

"Please forgive me."

With shaky hands, he holds hers tighter and slowly nods his head, not knowing how he could do anything but forgive her. She's his whole world, he knows nothing other than forgiveness.

"You're special, Finn, never forget that. I believe in you, and I know you will do great things. Please don't forget me, or us."

She chokes on her tears and needs a moment to collect herself.

He can only stand there, gripping her hands even tighter, as she clears her throat and continues.

"I love you. I've always loved you, Finn, and I always will. Promise me you'll remember that."

She reaches up to cup his face gently and softly presses a kiss to his lips, and he squeezes his eyes shut as the emotions washing over him become too strong to handle.

When he opens them again, she is walking away.

He doesn't run after her, he doesn't yell to her.

He just stands there, tears falling freely down his face.

He feels strangely calm.

He doesn't even panic when he remembers he didn't tell her that he loves her.

She knows.

They'll get their chance again, he knows they will.

It's not over.

It will never be over for them.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Okay, you can all come beat be with a rolling pin now.  
>The song is "This Ain't Goodbye" by Train. Highly recommend it, it's tragically beautiful- I just couldn't help myself when I listened to it earlier today, instant inspiration.<br>And I do not own Glee or Train, blah blah blah.  
>That's all I have to say for myself. Please let me know your thoughts!<p> 


	2. Words I Couldn't Say

A/N: Thank you to everyone who added this story to their favorites and alerts, as well as myself as an author! Due to so many messages via Tumblr, I've decided to continue this. As nice as the favorites and alerts are, please review, as well! It can be a little disheartening sometimes to see so many people have an obvious interest, but haven't taken the time to leave just a few words. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy :)

* * *

><p><em>I.<br>In a book, in a box, in the closet  
>In a line, in a song I once heard<br>In a moment on a front porch late one June  
>In a breath inside a whisper beneath the mooon<em>

There it was at the tip of my fingers  
>There it was on the tip of my tongue<br>There you were and I had never been that far  
>There it was the whole world wrapped inside my arms<br>And I let it all slip away

He's not used to the noise. He will never be used to the noise.

He's not used to the hustle and the bustle, and he doesn't understand why everyone has to be in such a hurry all the time.

Then he remembers that the noise and the hustle and bustle are the very reasons he moved here.

He needs distractions, he needs to forget. He needs the taxi cabs and the whistles and the clicking of heels on pavement to drown out the "what if?"s in his head. He needs the fast-paced lifestyle to keep him from slowly fading away into himself.

It wasn't supposed to be this hard. It was supposed to be a quiet acceptance that seeped into his heart to heal the wounds, a hopeful melancholy that would allow him to go on with his life with dreams of reconciliation pushed to the back of his mind.

He was supposed to be able to move on. Not from her, but from the pain, from the desperate sense of loss. He was supposed to take those last words that came out of her beautiful mouth all those years ago as words of bittersweet optimism, and he was supposed to make the most of his life to prove to himself that he will one day again be worthy of her love.

But his stubborn heartache had other plans for him. Turns out, when you're tethered to someone? Trying to cut the cord is fruitless.

Trying to play football at OSU while trying not to fail all his classes while trying to keep every single girl at least 10 feet away from him, because _they're not her_, while trying to put on a façade of happiness in the hopes that it will eventually convince his aching heart.. it's all useless.

It's all useless when he can't bring himself to do anything but sob into his pillow and drink to a state of numbing belligerence.

So he bid it all goodbye. The football, the classes, the girls (who he never liked anyway), the fake happiness.. he left it all behind in Columbus.

When he showed up on his front porch in Lima, red-eyed and swaying, his mom tried to keep him there for as long as she could. She knew he was slipping, that he needed a strong support system, that he wouldn't even be able to keep his head above water in the real world without a finished college degree.

So, with his mom's insistence, he showed up at William McKinley High School to see if anyone could spare an alum some work hours. Turns out Mr. Kidney the janitor kicked the bucket a week ago and Figgins was in need of a replacement.

He accepted the offer, knowing it was a terrible mistake.

After just three miserable days, though, of avoiding anyone and anything with a link to his past, he was called to the auditorium (God, why the _auditorium_?) to clean some gum off the stage, and he knew in that moment that he needed out. He needed out of that stifling job filled with stifling memories of her stiflingly vivacious personality that emanated from every hallway of that godforsaken building and every street corner of that godforsaken town.

So here he is. He didn't come here because he knew she'd be here.

Okay, maybe that was, like, one percent of the reason.

But he came here because he needed to throw himself into something that would keep him going.

Not that selling ice cream at the intersection of Broadway and 42nd will keep him going forever, but it's good for now.

He just wishes the noise didn't have to be quite so _noisy_.

II.  
><em>What do I do now that you're gone<br>No back-up plan no second chance  
>And no one else to blame<br>All I can hear in the silence that remains  
>Are the words I couldn't say<em>

It's 3:00 p.m. and he knows that the same lady that always shows up at 3:00 p.m. is going to show up again today. She always ogles him and asks him why he's not a model yet.

That's the thing about this job- it's okay to work somewhere like this in New York City, because everyone just assumes he's a struggling actor trying to make ends meet while waiting to make it big. No one looks down on him. Here, he's not a loser for not having a college degree.

So he digs out some knock-off Dippin' Dots for the Chinese family of tourists, and is pocketing his tip when he feels someone pinch his butt.

Great.

Never has he dreaded a specific time like he dreads 3:00 p.m.

He forces a smile and asks her if it's the usual, and she asks him if he comes on top (like she does every single day.. someone should really tell her the novelty of a comment like that wears off after the first fifty times), and he lets out a laugh that would sound painful to all ears but the obliviously persistent ones in front of him.

She makes a show of licking the cone seductively, and he has to refrain from liberally rolling his eyes.

After shooting her down again, because he just can't date women who aren't _her_, okay?, he purposely looks to the next customer, praying that she gets the hint this time.

His jaw doesn't relax until she's finally out of sight.

III.  
><em>There's a rain that will never stop fallin<br>There a wall that I tried to take down  
>What I should have said just wouldn't pass my lips<br>So I held back and now we've come to this  
>And it too late now<em>

When business slows down, he pulls out "Marketing for Dummies" and looks through the pages the same way he does every other day- never quite grasping it all, but wishing he could.

He needs to make something of his life. He knows that. He can't just sit around and live in the past, or wallow about the present. He needs to establish a future.

But he just hates that word.

The future was always supposed to be with _her_.

In this very city, with _her_, and with their kids, and with their dog, and with trophies lining the mantle, and with playbills littering the coffee tables, and with promises to spend every living, breathing moment _together_.

But he can't think about all that. That now constitutes as living in the past.

So he continues flipping through the pages and pages of accounting and hospitality and public relations, bored out of his mind.

But, really, it's either this or the newspaper, and he can't read the newspaper.

In his fourteen months in the city, he's avoided television like the plague, and has not once touched a newspaper.

He can't start now. He can't chance that.

Living in the same city is one thing (at least, he assumes she still lives here..). But hearing her name, seeing her picture? Something else entirely.

As miserable as he is, he's still made progress from those dark days of binging and self-loathing.

No, he can't chance coming across anything that could serve as an emotional trigger. He can't go down that road again, square one is too painful of a place to be.

So he reins it all in and looks back down, swallowing a yawn.

Page 80, Psychology of Product Placement.

Fascinating.

IV.  
><em>What do I do now that your gone<br>No back-up plan no second chance  
>And no one else to blame<br>All I can hear in the silence that remains  
>Are the words I couldn't say<em>

It's one of those evenings where the wind is forceful enough to swoop between the large buildings and skyscrapers, which magically soften its blow from powerfully gusty to pleasantly breezy.

It's a nice change from the humid, dank air that's accompanied him into an uncomfortably damp sleep the past couple nights. He thinks the people of New York must be happy for the dryness of tonight.

Of course, most people in New York can afford air conditioning and don't have to let the moisture of the city air into their bedrooms.

He takes down his sign, ready to call it a day, one eye on the turbaned guy who's pedaling a rickshaw and yelling loudly at some "imbecile" to get out of the road.

Chuckling, he begins putting cones back into containers, and sorts out the day's pay.

He hears footsteps quickly approaching, and looks up to see the same imbecile slapping a palm on the cart, and asking through pants if he's too late to get some ice cream.

He shrugs and tells the imbecile that it's not a problem, that he can buy something anyway, and begins scooping the pistachio and strawberry double scoop, his heart clenching painfully as he remembers that being _her_ trademark order.

But when he looks up to hand the imbecile his ice cream, he can't hear a thing. He can't hear the taxi cabs or the whistles or the clicking of heels on pavement. He can't feel the whoosh of people hurrying around him. He can't hear the imbecile apologetically explaining the last-minute purchase as a little present for his girlfriend, and then he can't hear the imbecile yelling at him as the pistachio and strawberry double scoop tumbles from his trembling hand.

He sees only those eyes, those big, brown, beautiful eyes. Those big, brown, beautiful eyes looking back at him, shock dilating the pupils and paralyzing the tiny body they belong to.

_Oh, God._

_Oh, God, no._

All those months and months of living carefully, of living like a _hermit_ to avoid that beautiful name and that even more beautiful face.

Up until now, he could never decide whether or not a tiny part of him actually wanted to run into her eventually.

Now, though, he knows that's not so.

Like a hurricane brewing inside of him, his thoughts and emotions become a whirlwind that he just cannot keep up with.

His head hurts, his heart hurts, everything just hurts.

He thinks his head might actually explode when the imbecile reaches out to her and puts his arm around her.

His eyes still haven't left hers, and neither of them have moved a muscle, and the imbecile must be incredibly confused right now, but he can't be bothered with those thoughts when she.. she is right here. In front of him. Right here in front of him.

Years and years flash before him, like a timeline, and he sees him kissing her, and her kissing him, and nights spent whispering under the stars, and packed auditoriums listening to the magic they made together, and tears, and tears, and just so many goddamn tears, and now he sees her again, right here in front of him, and he's not sure exactly when he began to shake violently, but a concerned passing stranger breaks him out of his trance, and his gaze snaps to the imbecile, who is looking between the two of them suspiciously, and then back to her just in time to notice those big, brown, beautiful eyes still gazing at him and welling up as some of the blood returns to her face.

"Okay.." begins the man on her left.

_God, not now, imbecile, not now. Go away, just go away._

She doesn't bat an eye at the voice of the man presumed to be her boyfriend, and just looks to the ground at the melting ice cream.

He follows her gaze and hastily, shakily reaches for another cone, making sure the strawberry scoop is bigger than the pistachio this time around.

She's always liked the strawberry a little more than the pistachio.

She reaches for it quietly, inhaling sharply at his small gesture of remembrance, and her hand lingers on his as the tears she failed to blink back start to flow freely down her face.

He just breathes deeply, attempting to swallow his own tears, and gently pushes the cone into her hand, removing his own.

He can't do this. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

It hardly feels like years have passed. The pain is still too raw. Too raw and too.. _painful_.

She blinks a little at the loss of contact and all that is signified by it.

He looks down at his feet.

God, he really, really can't do this right now.

Swallowing thickly, he watches as the imbecile pays for her cone, not sparing either of them incredulous looks.

"Thank you, Finn," she murmurs, staring at the pistachio starting to melt.

He feels like he's been punched in the stomach.

How many years has it been since that beautiful voice has uttered his name?

Years ago, he could've sworn that beautiful voice was made to say his, and only his, name.

Now, hearing it after so long, he could swear the same thing.

He steels himself as she turns to leave, but she hesitates and looks at him over her shoulder.

Her eyes are glistening again, and when she opens her mouth to speak, his heart stops at the utter sadness tainting her words.

"Welcome home."

* * *

><p>Song credit: "The Words I Couldn't Say," Rascal Flatts<p> 


End file.
